


Ritual

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M, aomido week 2k15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:13:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4080841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're creatures of habit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ritual

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this art: http://basketballpoetsociety.tumblr.com/post/111847913538/characters-aomine-daiki-midorima-shintarou
> 
> For aomido week day 2: old habits

Aomine sighs in his sleep, left hand stretching toward the shortening sunbeam, snuggling deeper into the couch cushions like a small animal into its burrow—how he finds the shot, cheap couch in anyway comfortable to sleep on Midorima doesn’t know (it’s adequate for many things, but not sleep). This isn’t to say that Midorima still tells Aomine that he should nap in the bedroom if he wants real rest, because it’s more than a little bit nice to have Aomine around, conscious or no, while he folds the laundry and tidies things up and reads the newspaper—it’s become a routine for both of them every Saturday, and Midorima doesn’t want to break it.

Aomine probably doesn’t, either; they’re both creatures of habit, from the clothes they wear to the way they talk—even the way they interact with each other is tinged with the belligerence that’s been there since the day they met, when Midorima had discovered his competition for tallest in the class and Aomine had simply looked bored. And Aomine’s always had his choice napping spots, his seat in the classroom in middle school and the roof at Touou and even certain spots in his college dorm room and now the bastion of mediocrity that is their couch. He looks content, though, posture loose and a smile on his face, and Midorima’s always been one to judge but he’s long since stopped commenting on every single strange thing that seems to please Aomine.

Midorima spreads out the flat sheet; the dark purple is fading into a softer hue and he wonders if they ought to buy a new one—they wash their few sets often, perhaps too often for them to last much longer (Midorima aims for once a week, but due to the increased frequency and intensity of certain activities they have to change the sheets more than that). Folding larger things is more relaxing, the flat sheet and the fitted sheet and the towels—not that shirts and pants and sweaters aren’t in their own way, and don’t develop their own rhythm as he goes, but the sheet divides in on itself over and over again, a finite sky of washed-out eggplant. Midorima places it in the basket and watches it settle; he hears Aomine stirring on the couch again. He’s done with the linens and the shirts and has started on the pants when Aomine speaks.

“Hey, Midorima?”

“Yes?”

“What are we having for dinner?”

This conversation, too, is part of the routine—exactly what they have for dinner isn’t; they both like too many things and it mostly depends on what they haven’t had in a while and what Aomine feels like making (despite both of their best efforts, Midorima can’t even cook plain rice). Midorima folds the last of Aomine’s jeans and pats them down in the laundry basket—he’s only got a few of his own khakis left. The floorboards groan behind him; Aomine’s probably standing.

“Katsu? Do you feel like making it?” Midorima says.

The floor squeaks again; Midorima can feel Aomine before he drops a hand into Midorima’s hair and ruffles it. 

“I’m not a dog,” says Midorima, folding the last pair of pants and pressing them very firmly on top of the pile.

“Can’t I enjoy being the taller one?” says Aomine.

“You wasted those years,” says Midorima.

He refrains from reaching up and pinching Aomine’s thigh.

“Will you help me put these away?”

Aomine doesn’t reply, but follows Midorima into the bedroom and starts opening drawers. He’s gotten a little more organized in the years since Midorima’s met him (Midorima would like to think it’s his own good influence, and it is likely that he’s become accustomed to Midorima’s methods of organization and this, rather than leaving his clothes everywhere, has slowly ingrained itself as yet another habit). 

“Katsu’s good, yeah,” says Aomine. “I think we need more rice and panko, though.”

They always end up going to the grocery store on Saturdays, too; even if they don’t strictly need anything they’ll look at what’s on sale and stock up on condiments or beer or canned soup. This is the one day of the week they can go shopping together instead of texting each other what to buy or going separately after work when they’re run down and can’t wait to just get back home. 

This is different; this is leisurely—they’ve still got things to do when they get back, things unrelated to dinner, but they’ll get them done and they haven’t been kicked around by bosses and duties all day. Aomine’s already grabbed Midorima’s coat from out of the closet and tossed it to him, along with his own, and they pick up keys and wallets and phones from familiar places as they walk toward the front door of the apartment together.

They hold hands as they walk down the street; their fingers are locked together and Aomine drums the pads of his against Midorima’s to an irregular beat that has to come from somewhere deep inside his mind, like a broken drum machine but much better. They speak of trivial things, the weather and which items were supposed to be on sale this weekend and what they need for things other than dinner, like breakfast for tomorrow and next week.

Once they get to the grocery store, they split up; Aomine checks the produce and the meat and Midorima hunts for rice and bread and panko. He gets these relatively quickly (a certain brand of bread is on sale—it’s not the tastiest but it’s certainly adequate and it keeps well) and finds Aomine in line at the deli counter, places his own items gingerly on top of Aomine’s in the basket and then squeezes Aomine’s shoulder. Aomine tosses a grin up at him and Midorima returns it, even though they’re in the middle of the grocery store.

* * *

The katsu is delicious; Midorima eats more than he probably should but he doesn’t regret it much. At any rate, it’s fuel for the arduous task of filling out paperwork that’s due on Monday, endless forms that need his signature or specific inputs and he can’t just sign off without reading and still have a clear conscience.

Aomine vacuums while he sits on the couch; the white noise of the nozzle scraping across the carpet and the humming machine is comforting, incorporated (as it always is) into the rhythm of his pen on the paper and the words falling upward into his head from the page. Still, he barely notices when the noise stops—he looks up what might be five minutes or might be three quarters of an hour later, and it’s only then he notices the weight of a half-asleep Aomine leaning against his side. Maybe it’s time for bed.


End file.
